


Someday After Gillian

by kassidy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: 1970s, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, First Time, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 17,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassidy/pseuds/kassidy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A countdown of the days after Gillian dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

BEGINNING

 

Gillian’s dead.

The thought came, over and over. During the day. Watching TV. At night it was a litany. He let it flow over him each time, though a particularly gruesome picture came to mind lately when he thought it: Gillian’s body, bloated, floating up from the depths of dark water. A nightmare. But he’d been hit so many times with thoughts about her, her name coming to his mind naturally, his reactions not yet caught up with current events: _Gillian would like this. Wonder if Gillian—_

He pulled a hard breath in, shook his head, trying to clear it. It was better that his mind announced the fact of her death again and again than suffer being caught unaware.

Starsky was there, a lot. Most of the time. Sometimes Hutch wanted more than anything to be alone. Other times, he couldn’t bear it. He liked it best when Starsky didn’t say anything, but was just there.

The night Gillian died, Hutch had gone home and sat on the couch in the dark. He sat for a long time, unmoving, until his body began to feel very brittle. Starsky sat beside him, tried to lay his hand on Hutch’s, but Hutch whispered, a feather-breath stirring the air. _No_. And Starsky withdrew. But he never left his side. He never stopped trying to reach out, and each time was rebuffed, though Hutch didn’t think of it that way. He was trying not to shatter.

Finally, Starsky gave Hutch a word. _Please._ His voice was raw. Hutch looked at him, pale eyes swimming to focus on his partner for the first time since they’d sat down. Starsky’s face was white and still, his eyes dark with need—a need to comfort, to take some of Hutch’s pain away. That one word allowed Hutch’s stiff body to remember how to move, how to let Starsky in.

Starsky pulled him into his arms. Hutch breathed hard, fighting to hold it all, and Starsky’s body pressed into his. “Hutch, Hutch,” he said, and kept coaxing until it couldn’t be held in anymore. It seeped out against a throat so tightened with anger and loss that each breath seemed the last one possible.

Starsky whispered the word again, holding his partner tightly, and Hutch let it all go.

 


	2. Chapter 2

THIRD NIGHT AFTER

 

He stood at the sink and washed out a glass. He would have let everything just pile up, but Starsky kept on top of it. He decided to wash his own damn glass, so Starsky wouldn’t. But somehow when he set the thing down it shattered.

The drinking glass had been a little fancier than most things in his apartment—thin, etched with a twining vine. It was fragile, so it really wasn’t as surprising as it sounded, that you could just set down a glass and break it. It was something his mother had bought and reminded him of her, thin and elegant, delicate-looking, though certainly not easily broken. Her looks were deceiving.

Did she even know about Gillian? Suddenly he wanted to talk to his mother, and he moved to the phone, obeying his impulse without thought. If his father answered he’d have hung up, but she picked up on the third ring. He had to clear his throat before he could get a word out.

“Mom,” he said, and stopped. 

“Ken, sweetheart. It’s so good to hear from you.” 

“Mother, I met a wonderful woman,” he started, looking off at nothing, remembering. “I, uh . . . her name was Gillian. She was a—a . . . ”

“What do you mean—” his mother started.

“A writer. She was a writer.” 

“She was—?” 

“She was kind, Mom. Soft-spoken, and beautiful. Just beautiful.” 

“Oh my God. What happened?” 

“She loved me,” he said. He breathed into the silence of the phone.

Her voice came back, quiet. “I know, sweetheart.” 

“You know.” 

“Of course. How could she not?”

Hutch hung on to the phone and smiled, closing his eyes. He nodded, though he knew his mother couldn’t see. There was a sound at the door. Starsky, letting himself in.

“Will you come home? Please?” she asked.

“What the hell? Hutch?” said Starsky, striding over, and grabbed at the hand holding the receiver. Hutch jerked back and made a staying motion with the other. 

“I just wanted you to know, Mother. Starsky’s here now. I have to go.” 

”Kenny, don’t.” 

“I love you, Mom.” He hung up and stared at the blood on the phone while Starsky bandaged his hand.

  


	3. Chapter 3

ONE WEEK AFTER

 

They sat in the Torino, watching a third-floor apartment on a shabby street. The place was utilitarian brick, no one apparently interested enough to bring any sense of individuality to the rows upon rows of apartment windows.

A drug dealer at the bottom of the food chain lived in the apartment. The pickpocket they’d busted earlier in the day had offered up the dealer for his freedom—a party was going down that evening, with some distribution on the side. Small potatoes, but Starsky was glad to go after it, especially since Hutch had insisted on returning to work. Gave them something to focus on. And anyway, ever since Forest and his goons had hooked Hutch on the juice, Starsky had landed with both feet and a singular ferocity on dealers in their area, no matter how small.

The party was supposed to begin around nine. The two detectives parked down the road from the apartment and staked it out. It was eight pm and so far the street was nearly deserted. The car still emanated an uncomfortable heat from the day.

Starsky sighed and shifted in his seat. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Whatcha thinkin’?”

“I’m thinking you’re bored to ask me what I’m thinking.” Hutch swiped at the sweat on his brow.

“Yeah, well I’m thinking about a big plate of lasagna, my treat, after this is over.”

“Thanks but I’ll pass.”

“C’mon, Hutch, you’ve had what, two leaves and a twig to eat today?”

“Very funny, Starsk.”

“No. No, it’s not. That’s my point.”

“You know what? My mother’s in Minnesota, and she never served lasagna.”

“She _never_ served lasagna. Who ever heard of a mo—”

Hutch turned to look at Starsky, who snapped his mouth shut.

“My point. You aren’t my mother. Quit trying to act like it.”

“I’m pinch-hitting.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Besides, you know how hungry I get when I—”

“When you’re doing anything, Starsk. Absolutely anything. I bet you eat in the shower.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ever heard of an oral fixation?” Hutch asked, and Starsky made fish lips at him. Hutch rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. Some day we gotta talk about this.”

“Talk now. Nothing’s going down here. Anyway I’d rather talk about that than think about how Dobey’s going to kick our asses for not letting him in on this. Why didn’t we let him in on this again?”

“Small fry, that’s why. Nothing to it. Look, traffic’s picking up,” Hutch said, nodding at a trio coming down the sidewalk. They turned to the apartment entry and sat for the next twenty minutes as four more groups and two individuals arrived at the apartment.

“How do you want to play it?” Hutch’s eyes followed a couple walking up the sidewalk.

“Let’s check out the apartment first, see the requirements for entry into this fine establishment.”

“Okay, then. We’re on.” Hutch opened his door, throwing long legs from the car and jumping out. Starsky slammed the driver’s side door shut and followed his partner to the apartment building.

Inside, the lobby was a depressing blur of tans and browns. They headed for the stairs, the door making a shushing sound against the carpet as they opened it and entered the narrow white stairwell. At the third floor level they peered out the door and watched the entrance of two new arrivals from the elevator.

“Looks all right,” Starsky allowed. “You know, you’d think a dealer would take a few precautions. Dumb. I say we walk in like we own the place.”

Hutch nodded in agreement. The two of them strolled to the door and entered. The room was small and long with green carpet and new furniture made to look antique. Smoke wafted through the air, the scent strong and sickly sweet. They looked around, trying to match the description they’d been given for the drug dealer, but had no luck. The description was of a dark-haired man, tall, and extremely fat. Starsky looked at Hutch and tipped his head to the left at a door, partially ajar. Hutch nodded, and Starsky pushed it open, feigning drunken confusion.

“Wha—? Ziss the bathroom—” he slurred, taking note of the plastic baggy in the dealer’s grasp. Starsky put one hand on his gun, pulled out his badge and stepped closer. “Police. Hands up. _Now_.”

The dealer did as he was told, the bag dropping onto the carpet. The woman standing next to him was thin with big dark eyes. She still had her hand outstretched, and slowly, she lowered it.

“That was mine,” she said dolefully.

“I’d tell you I’m sorry but then I’d be lyin’,” Starsky answered, just as Hutch’s raised voice overrode the murmur of the party-goers in the next room.

“Police! Get your hands in the air. And hurry up, my trigger finger’s feeling itchy.”

“My, my,” Starsky murmured, his eyebrow raised. He herded the couple just ahead of him, their arms stretched upwards in surrender, into the living room. “All right, people. Head for the nearest wall, lean against it and spread ’em. Your hands come down and you ain’t gonna like me very much.”

The partners moved around the room, setting most of the guests free after patting them down. Hutch, at the outside wall near the front door, searched a wiry man with a receding hairline. He felt the outline of a bottle in the man’s right pocket.

“What do we have here?” He pulled the bottle out. A worn prescription label was attached. Hutch held it up toward the light.

“Our friend here’s carrying bennies, Starsk,” he said, squinting at the label, “unless they’re called tetracycline nowadays—”

The suspect pushed off the wall and threw his body into Hutch, then slammed him in the face with a fist. Hutch stumbled back, blood trickling from his nose.

Starsky swung around at the noise and saw Hutch’s face go white. At first, Starsky thought it was because he’d been hurt. Hutch reeled backwards and fell, but rolled on his back and came smoothly to his feet. He followed the guy who’d hit him, running for the door.

“Stay against the wall, if you know what’s good for you,” Starsky said in a terse aside to the two men remaining at the end of the room, and strode toward his partner. Hutch reached his assailant at the doorway and snagged the back of his collar, dragging him backwards. Starsky, still heading for his partner, turned to make a quick check on the men he’d left unguarded. They were transfixed by the action.

Hutch slung the man against the wall and clocked him one, hard. Then he grabbed the man’s face in one hand and knocked the back of his head against the wall. Starsky winced.

And again. Hutch’s face was still that weirdly ashen color, his features pinched, and his nose leaked more blood. Too late, Starsky saw the fury in him and touched his partner’s arm, trying to signal him with his eyes. Hutch ignored him.

“Where do you think you’re going, creep?” Hutch’s voice was tight and cold, calm. He twisted his fingers in the front of the man’s collar, tightening it, and the man choked helplessly, his eyes going vague. Hutch thrust his face closer. “Having a little trouble?” he asked, jerking the collar with each word for emphasis.

“Hutch. You want him to talk, you gotta let him breathe, huh?” Starsky gripped his partner’s arm, demanding his attention, and was totally unprepared at the look on Hutch’s face when he turned around.

“Hands off, Starsky.” His eyes burned like pale torches.

Starsky had the feeling he should have seen this coming, but their day together had been so normal, so much like always that he’d relaxed his watch.

He kept his voice level. “Hey. It’s me.”

“I know who the fuck you are! This scum wanted to have a good time tonight, and I’m gonna make sure he gets it.”

“I don’t think so. You get yourself under control or you walk out of here, partner.” He kept his eyes pinned to Hutch’s, watched him come down, slowly, as if he were on a drug  
of some sort. But the wildness only faded back; it didn’t disappear. Starsky saw it lurking.

“Okay. Okay,” Hutch said, and his shoulders settled a fraction. Starsky wasn’t fooled, but it was enough for now. He called for the black and whites and then sat down beside Hutch, waiting for their arrival.

“You’re bleeding, dummy. Wipe your nose.”

Usually the two worked together with one mind. Not tonight. Hutch had been Hutch, out there in the car . . . and now he wasn’t. It couldn’t be him, because Hutch didn’t lose it in the middle of a bust. It was dangerous for them both, same way that showing a division between them in front of the suspects was dangerous.

Starsky had had no choice but to call him on it.


	4. Chapter 4

NINE DAYS AFTER

 

Sweet Alice lay in her own blood, left eye purple and swollen. Her eyes were open, barely, but she hadn’t responded to either of their voices. Starsky called for an ambulance.

Hutch parted her long blonde hair with his fingers, finding a still-seeping cut on her scalp. He couldn’t find any more readily apparent injuries. Bending low to her ear, he called her name softly, and then repeated it. 

Starsky came and knelt beside him. “How is she?”

“I don’t know. She’s got a scalp wound, so maybe that’s why all the blood.”

Alice murmured, then groaned. Her eyelids trembled, and Hutch squeezed her hand. “Alice. Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me.”

Alice’s big eyes widened. “Hutch? Wh . . . what . . . ” 

Hutch slid a gentle hand down her cheek. “It’s about time you showed me those pretty eyes. I was beginning to worry.” He smiled at her. 

“Ohhhh . . . my head, it hurts . . . ” 

“I know, I know it does, sweetheart. An ambulance is coming, and they’ll take care of you. Can you tell me what happened?” Alice’s blue eyes watched him in silence. Then she closed them. 

“Alice?”

“Hutch, honey, it doesn’t matter.” But she wouldn’t look at him. 

“Alice? What are you talking about? Of course it matters!”

As if he hadn’t spoken, she said, “I’m careful, but sometimes it isn’t enough, you know? Nothing is.” She opened her eyes and tried to smile. “Guess every job has its risks.” 

Hutch’s body froze in position. Starsky put his hand on Hutch’s forearm, gave a slow rub, and leaned over Alice.

“Nobody deserves this, Alice. Give us something to go on, willya?” he asked, his voice soft. “I can’t be responsible for what Blondie here does if you don’t.” 

“Alice.” Hutch’s face was intent. “You can’t just let someone get away with hurting you.” He touched a finger under her chin and got her eyes to meet his. “Please. Give me something.” 

“The fella hit me and I fell hard. I think I hit the coffee table on the way down. I figure he musta got scared when I passed out.” Hutch shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, but she spoke instead. “He won’t be back. That’s all I care about, Hutch.” She reached out. “It’s enough.”

“It matters,” Hutch repeated in frustration, and bent down still closer. “You matter, don’t you know that?”

“I’m all out of fight,” she replied slowly. Her eyes asked for understanding, and he held her hand as the ambulance approached. “It could have been worse,” she offered, plaintive, and Hutch felt his throat close up. She was trying to comfort him.

“Just take it easy, sweetheart. It’ll be okay, it’ll be fine,” he said, knowing it for the lie it was, knowing that what had happened to Gillian could happen to Alice.


	5. Chapter 5

TWELVE DAYS AFTER

 

_C’mon, Hutchinson_ , _at least don’t lie to yourself_.

It wasn’t really all that far-fetched, was it? Maybe from the outside, but then he wasn’t on the outside looking in. This was his and Starsky’s internal drama. Ever since Forest had hooked him on heroin, since he’d seen how far his partner was willing to go for him, since he’d puked and shaken and cried in his arms, he’d turned away from those memories of pain and sickness, but mostly from those arms that had refused to let him go. He’d never had anyone like that, someone to walk through fire for him. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve it.

_Bullshit. It’s not about if you deserve it or not. You’ve always known he’d do anything for you, same as you would for him. Stop hiding._  

From what? 

_Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter._ He’d used the mantra ever since Gillian died until he was numb and he didn’t know how to feel anything other than empty. But not anymore. The blinders were coming off even when he didn’t want them to.

He remembered last night, even though he’d been drunk as hell. Again. Decided to get a tattoo, which then and there would tell any idiot exactly how drunk he was. He didn’t know what had got into him other than maybe the fact that Starsky didn’t think he’d do it, and he didn’t give a damn.

They drove to the tattoo parlor, walked in. Rae was there, squinting through the smoke of the perennial cigarette dangling from her lips. He’d taken off his shirt, hair crackling all over his head with static electricity. Starsky had laughed and pushed him into the chair, Hutch collapsing like a noodle into it.

Starsky had warned him one last time. "You’re gonna hate it tomorrow, Hutch."He'd turned to Rae, appealing. “And he calls me a moron.”

“Shut up, Starsk,” Hutch had snapped and instead of getting mad, Starsky reached out, brushing his fingers through Hutch’s flyaway hair. He looked down into Hutch’s eyes for a minute, grinning. Then his gaze traveled over Hutch’s bare chest. His eyes got softer, the pupils darker, and the grin faded. He looked away. Rae’s eyes went from Starsky, to Hutch, then back to Starsky.

Something struck in the center of Hutch’s brain, telegraphed fast and clear like pure white lightning. He'd stood up, knocking the chair backward, for a moment wishing blindly that it was Starsky he’d knocked backwards. He'd headed for the door, nearly running.

Starsky was crazy. Didn’t he know Hutch was just as likely to drag him down and drown them both as Starsky was to save them? 

“Great.” Starsky had ran after him, grabbing his arm. “What’s got into you, anyway?”

_I saw the way you_ looked _at me,_ he'd wanted to yell, but the words had stuck in his throat, as if giving them voice would make them absolutely real. _It’s too late, Starsk, I saw._ He’d grabbed his shirt from Starsky, fumbled his arms through the armholes and shrugged it on over his shoulders. He'd walked out the door, Starsky following, silent. Hutch could feel him back there, as if live wires attached them together.

Rae’s voice floated after them, calling out a goodbye in her usual rough voice. Neither answered. 

Hutch did his best to put it down to drinking. Tried to bury it. He tried to bury it again by throwing back another mouthful of beer, not even tasting it. Decided he was tired of it. Then went to get another, deciding he didn’t care if he was tired of it. 

Yeah, he was tired of drinking, tired of being on the streets, tired of everything, maybe even Starsky. Even the human body replaces itself over a period of time, cell by cell, yet he and Starsky kept treading water pretending they were still the same bodies and minds. Trying to hold the past close and deny the changes between them. 

_It doesn’t matter._ Hutch repeated his mantra, knowing it for the lie it was. It made him afraid, and the fear made him crazy, made him madder than hell.


	6. Chapter 6

SIXTEEN DAYS AFTER

 

Hutch sat down beside Starsky on the couch at Venice Place, popping open another beer. Starsky’s eyes followed him to the kitchen and back. Had followed him all night. Hutch kept slinging back the beer, trying not to think about those eyes, failing utterly.

“Quit . . . quit . . . _tracking_ me, would you?” 

“What are you talking about? You need to lay off the sauce, buddy,” Starsky said, blearily.

“You first. You’re using me as an excuse to become a lush. I got news for you, babysitting doesn’t entail getting drunk with your . . . your . . . ” 

“Baby?” 

“ _Charge_. Your charge. That’s what. Coulda swore we had two different mothers, but somehow we got attached at the hip.”

“You’re killing us with all this drinking.” Starsky stared morosely out the dark window. “Tracking what?” He hiccupped.

Hutch glared. “Moron. You. Staring at me.” 

“It’s your good looks. I can’t help myself,” Starsky said, solemn, and Hutch nodded agreement. Starsky shook his head in disgust. The motion made him dizzy. And Hutch was right—why drink just because his partner was doing it? The thought made him irritable. “Mr. Ego, here.Just because you’ve fucked half the city in the last week.Can’t have been easy rounding up the stragglers.”

Hutch snickered.

“Next you’ll be grabbin’ at _me_ with your grimy paws.”

“You wish.”

“Maybe.” Starsky leered, and Hutch laughed.

“Hey, Hutch. Can you fuck too much?” 

“You’re asking me?” 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

“But what do you think?” 

“For God’s sake, Starsky.” Hutch sighed. 

“What do you call it when you’ve screwed too much?” Starsky’s eyes were inquisitive. 

“Happiness?”

They fell over one another, laughing.

Starsky slowly propped himself up with a hand to Hutch’s knee and tried to think. “Nah, I mean like maybe you screw too much, wake up the next morning and you feel like shit, weak as water. You just can’t move. Ever done that? Almost like a hangover.” 

“You mean like the hangover you’re going to have in the morning.” 

“Shut up. It’s a fuckover, is what it is.” 

“A huh?” 

“A fuckover.” 

“That’s stupid. Your mind goes in some very strange directions.”

“Hangover, fuckover. Get it?” 

“The resultant physical problems of fucking to excess. Got it.” Hutch smiled, pleased with himself. “You got it?” 

Starsky slapped his partner’s knee, laughing. “I’m the one who asked _you_. Dummy.” 

“Starsk. What physical problems, exactly? You been getting more than I know of?”

Starsky’s grin lit the room. “Jealous, Sherlock? Don’t worry, I’ll save some for you.”

Hutch sighed.

“Nah, I just think your dick might get sore or something, that’s all. Maybe raw, even.” He shrugged and drained the can of beer. “Just wondering.” He burped. 

Hutch smirked and winced at the same time, reaching down to rub himself, unthinking. “Well, I’ve fucked myself blind this past week, but not . . . God, did you have to say raw?” He looked down at Starsky’s crotch. “Jesus, is there something wrong with you?” He pawed at Starsky’s zipper.

Starsky slapped his partner’s hands. “Get your—just what the hell are you doing?” 

“Thought you wanted to show me your rash.” 

“Rash? No rash, dummy. You’re the one been trying out for the fuck squad. Get your hands offa me, unless you’re comin’ on to me.”

It was Hutch’s turn to leer.

Starsky drew his eyebrows down into a frown. “That’s kind of low-brow of you.” 

“Well there we agree. Coming on to you would be low-brow.” 

“Asshole. I meant, all this fucking and drinking. It’s beneath you.” Starsky said, mock reproach in his voice. 

“Beneath, on top, hanging from the ceiling. It’s all good.” They collapsed together again, laughing.

“Sort of like this conversation,” said Starsky after they’d quieted. 

“What?” 

“Even this conversation is beneath us.” 

“Where is your head? I’ve never seen you worry about how many women you’ve had, or me. ‘Beneath you,’” Hutch said, mocking. “God. You sound like my father.” 

Starsky grinned. “Yeah. I was imitatin’ him. You caught that, huh?” 

“Trying to give me nightmares, is what,” Hutch grumbled. “You wanna get in my pants, lay off the Mr. Hutchinson routine, huh?”

Starsky choked on a swallow of beer.

“Anyway, you’re just afraid I’m gonna score more than you.”

“Riiigght.”

“What’s the cure?” Hutch scratched his nose, thinking.

“For what?” Starsky lolled his head in Hutch’s direction. 

“Fucking to excess. Fuckadelic. Whatever.”

Starsky gulped another healthy dose of beer. “Ah . . . hmm . . . take two aspirin, call me in the morning?”

“That’s no cure,” Hutch said, scornfully. Starsky hiccupped again. They were quiet, considering. 

“Hair of the dog. Gotta get back in the saddle, right away,” Hutch said solemnly, and Starsky spewed beer at him, laughing, then grabbed for a napkin on the table. He missed. “It must have worked for Gillian,” Hutch added, and it sounded so matter-of-fact that for a moment Starsky didn’t catch it. Then his eyes sought Hutch’s. They were bleak. Starsky reached out, rubbing his shoulder. Hutch leaned into it, closing his eyes, and the hand traveled to the back of his neck, squeezing gently.

Hutch tensed and Starsky reacted, his hand dropping as if burned. Standing abruptly, Hutch walked a few steps away, rubbing the bridge of his nose. When he turned back both the hurt and the unease were gone from his face as if nothing had passed between them. He waved his beer can about, affecting a scholarly expression.

“Actually, I think I’ve heard of this before.” 

“Really.” Starsky watched his face closely. 

“Yes really. _Copulatia_ _fuckititus_ , pal. I remember it from college, now you mention it.” 

“I’d hate to waste a good beer, Hutch, but I’m about to throw it at ya.” Starsky stood and followed his partner, swaying, actually trying to use a napkin to pat at the beer he’d just sprayed over Hutch’s blue turtleneck. He managed to slop some more on Hutch from his open can in the process.

Hutch glared down at him. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to pontificate, here.” 

“So poontang all you want. I’m trying to wipe the beer off you.” 

Hutch laughed. “Shit. You said that on purpose.” He bent over holding his stomach and laughed some more. “Poontang.”

Starsky grinned hugely and gestured at Hutch’s bent-over posture. “You have to take a piss or you gettin’ friendly on me?”

Hutch laughed again and collapsed on the couch and then just like that the laughter was gone because all the fucking in the world, all the drinking and all the jokes weren’t going to fix this. It hit him like a bag of sand, right between the eyes.

“Hutch?” Starsky finally asked, a little thickly. Hutch sat there, head lying at a steep angle, resting on the back of the couch. His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Hey. Hey, Hutch. Talk to me, buddy.” 

“I had no idea about Gillian. None.” 

“She didn’t want you to know.” Starsky slouched down beside him. 

“There was this whole other part of her that I didn’t know. Some detective, huh." Hutch shook his head in disgust. "That bastard momma’s boy and the Phyllis Diller from hell—what’d they _do_ to her before they killed her, Starsky, how many times did they do it to keep her in line? She carried all that and I was oblivious, walking around with my head in the goddamn clouds. What an idiot.” 

“You weren’t an idiot. You trusted her. Something you do with people you love,” Starsky said with a gentle sarcasm.

“Love is blind, huh? Only if you’re a fucking idiot.” 

Starsky tapped the back of Hutch’s hand. “Do not do this.”

Hutch raised his head up and blinked, trying to meet Starsky’s eyes. “Do what?” 

“Make me stare at you. I’m too drunk to hold my head steady.” Hutch smiled a little. “C’mon, don’t blame yourself. You know better.” 

“You have this idea of me, Starsk, and I don’t know who you’re seeing, but it isn’t anybody who knows better.” 

“The hell with that. I know what I see. It’s you who’s too busy blaming yourself to see how things are.” 

“Oh, really?” Hutch asked listlessly.

“You don’t have any fucking idea how I see you, Hutch, so can it.” 

“Just where the hell is this coming from?” 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t see things sometimes.” 

Hutch raised his voice. “I fucking know I don’t, that’s what I said. Why the fuck are you on my case?”

Starsky didn't reply, his lips set in a tight line. Hutch sat back again, slowly, and shrugged. Forcing his body to relax, he leaned back and dropped his head against the top of the couch again. 

The sofa creaked and the seat cushion next to him rocked downwards. Hutch’s eyes flew open and Starsky’s face hung over his, angry and determined and almost scared. His mouth lowered, touched Hutch’s, soft, then harder, something unleashing from inside him, and he drove Hutch down into the cushion, pushing his weight into him.

With no warning Hutch flared, turning inside out with white heat and longing. His head buzzed with an arousal that came from everywhere out of nowhere. He surged upwards, grinding his mouth into Starsky’s, and their breaths mingled, ragged in the silence of the room. Starsky grunted, pushing into him, the sofa moving back with the violence of it, and Hutch’s cock went hard, the length of it pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. The feel of it somehow knocked back the beer fumes in his mind, which grew clearer by the moment.

The insanity of Starsky’s lips, his _partner’s_ lips on his, tongue touching him, pushing into his mouth, breathing hard and deep, mindless— 

Hutch grabbed his shoulders and thrust him away. Starsky’s eyes opened slowly, unfocused, and his mouth was soft from Hutch’s. He looked, just for a moment, like a lost and vulnerable boy before something older crept over his features. 

Hutch got up, very precisely, ignoring how his chest squeezed at the way Starsky’s face closed up. He walked to his bedroom and just at the door, turned back to look at his partner.

“Whatever this is, I can’t do it.”

He was so tired. His head pounded. He closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. When he looked up, the front door was swinging shut. He stared after it a long time. A thousand thoughts careened around his head, squabbling, acknowledging, denying. All together they meant nothing.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

SEVENTEEN DAYS AFTER

 

The phone on the other end rang and rang. 

His head throbbed and his stomach was queasy. Whenever he moved, his equilibrium was two steps behind, disconnected. Closing his eyes only made it worse. 

“Yeah.” 

Hutch’s fingers gripped the receiver with a death grip. “It’s me.” 

“Come over,” said Hutch. 

More silence on the other end of the line, then: “Not a good idea.” 

“Oh, is tomorrow going to be any better?” Hutch snapped, then winced at the pain in his head. 

“Will you quit shouting. My head is killing me.” 

“Mine too. Sorry.” 

“Can’t make it right now.” 

“Look, Starsky, I’m still your partner, I’m not going anywhere so you might as well deal with me. Anyway there’s nothing to deal with.” 

“You do hide your head in the sand, don’t you, Hutch?” 

“Whatever. I’m your goddamned best friend, Starsky, it’s Saturday, you’re not doing anything and I ne—want you here. Will you come?”

“Hutch, you…” Starsky sighed. “You don’t know if I’m doing anything or not.” There was a silence. “Aren’t you afraid I might jump your ass again?” His voice was overly loud, going for belligerent. 

Hutch’s voice was mild. “I’ve got my Python.”

Starsky laughed, surprised, and when he spoke, he was more relaxed. “Dickhead. Promise you won’t pour one of those shitty hangover cures down my throat.” 

“Can’t do it.” 

There was a long, long pause, then: “Be there in ten.” 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHTEEN DAYS AFTER

 

They were at the beach, cool green water rolling up the shoreline. Gillian was swimming. She wore a black bikini, and strands of wet hair snaked around her neck, tangling in her silver necklace. The sun gathered in wet corners of her skin. She swam out a ways, then turned and beckoned to Hutch, smiling. He swam out to meet her. Starsky called something out to him from the shore and he turned and answered, and when he looked back Gillian was gone. Then he saw a pale flash beneath the surface of the water, light patterns waving over skin.

He swam to her and dived again and again and again, but his fingers couldn’t keep a grip on the cool flesh sliding out into the deep away from him. He was frantic, kept trying to reach her, but the green depths narrowed in his eyesight. Dark splotches overcame his vision. The pressure in his chest was tremendous. His arms and legs were rubber. 

Then Starsky was there, bubbles clinging to his arms and chest, dark hair floating in the push-pull of the waves. He grabbed Hutch from the back, arm around his chest. Hutch couldn’t leave her. He tried to break free, but he was too weak. He looked again for Gillian through the blackness and she was right _there_ , but somehow Grossman was there, too, his hands on Gillian’s throat. He looked up at Hutch and grinned.

Gillian’s expression was too still, the only movement the wave shadows reflecting life on the dead face and eyes. Her body sank slowly from sight. He screamed after her and water rushed into his lungs. 

Starsky swam upwards, holding his partner to his chest. They broke the surface and Starsky kept him from going back. Hutch couldn’t even yell at him. All he could do was cough and choke and try to breathe. 

Hutch woke up. He went to the bathroom and washed his hot face, rubbed his swollen eyes over and over in the running water from the bathroom sink. Outside, the sky was still dark. He lay back down and waited for daylight.

  


	9. Chapter 9

NINETEEN DAYS AFTER

 

He hadn’t said two words this morning, and there were shadows beneath his eyes.

They’d made it through the weekend together, and it hadn’t even been bad, just sort of weird. Hutch didn’t want to talk about it, Starsky could tell, and as for him . . . well, it burned a hole in his gut. But there were worse things.

It had taken a while to get back into their usual back-and-forth, but they’d been together too long to forget how to be with one another. Most of the time.

It was Monday morning and they were out on the streets. Dispatch alerted them to a robbery in progress. They were within five minutes of the scene, and both of them reached for the mike at the same time. Hutch’s fingers skated over Starsky’s hand, then jerked back as if he’d touched a roaring flame. Starsky’s hand froze a moment, and his brows drew down. He sighed in irritation and answered dispatch, not looking at his partner.

Most of the time, they remembered how to be with each other. Not all the time.

 

~oOo~

 

Starsky thought that very little could shock him nowadays, but that was before he saw Gillian conducting business in a back room of Grossman’s. It was an accident, seeing her there. He remembered his mind going blank. He went out to the car to join his partner, trying to keep his emotions in check, not knowing what to do or say, and it was all he could do not to wince whenever Hutch mentioned Gillian’s name for the rest of the day. It hurt like hell to see him so happy and know what Gillian hid from him. What Starsky hid from him, now. 

He needed to think, to be sure of what the situation was, and with Huggy’s help, he found out. Next he had to figure how to handle it. Then he had to have the guts and the cruelty to take away that dopey, brilliant grin Starsky had seen so much of on Hutch’s face lately.

He remembered knocking on Gillian’s apartment door, hearing the click-clack of a typewriter from within, then hearing it stop. She was surprised to see him. He made small talk, maybe trying to avoid what it was he had to do, but everything reminded him of it.

Like when she said, “Writers like being interrupted,” and knowing that writing wasn’t the only way she earned a living.

And, “This is a nice place.” _Grossman pays for it. Services rendered, so to speak._

He tried to shut the thoughts down. He didn’t want to have them. 

Gillian seemed perfect for Hutch, and perhaps in another life they would have married and had a happy life together, maybe even that dream life of family, kids, and a white picket fence.

Another life, not this one.

Starsky offered her first his knowledge of what she was, and then his life savings to leave town. “You love him too, don’t you?” she asked, and because he did, Starsky closed himself off from her pale face and trembling hands. He understood Gillian’s sorrow, but Hutch’s love for her was built on a fantasy that never existed, and he was going to suffer for it. Such bedrock knowledge took absolute precedence over the concern Starsky felt for Gillian.

He watched her clutch a pillow to her chest like a stuffed toy from her childhood, trying to find comfort. There was none to be found. 

“He’s got to be told.” Starsky’s voice was measured, determined. 

“Starsky, I love him. I love him. Does that count for anything?” Her voice was exposed, pleading, the protective armor that served her so well over the years falling away before Starsky’s intensity.

“He’s gotta know, one way or the other. He’s gotta know,” he repeated, unyielding.

“I have no choice?” Gillian sounded wistful. A hint of the lost child she’d been, once.

Starsky nodded. “If you don’t, I’ll tell him in the morning.”

As he walked out the door, her voice came after him: “Wouldn’t it be nice to be Hutch—in one lifetime, you have two people who love you so much?” It was hard to look at her and accept her pain, but he did, for a moment. He owed her that. 

_I tried to let you have him, Gillian. More than anything, he deserves some happiness._  

He sat down in the darkness of his apartment and thought about how to tell Hutch exactly what happened—that he went to pay Gillian off, that she went to the Grossmans' and faced them down. That because of it, Al had killed her. 

_She died because I forced her hand._

He thought about that a lot, lately.

 

  


	10. Chapter 10

TWENTY DAYS AFTER

 

One last kick and the door flew forward, banging against the wall. Starsky went low, Hutch high. Both of them caught a glimpse of a bare ass pumping over sprawled, pale legs, then made out the rest of the man’s crouching form in the dim glow of a TV screen. He yanked at his pants and ran further into the apartment. Starsky flipped the light switch on as Hutch ran after the suspect into a tiny den, snatching at the back of his shirt and catching it. The man’s fingers reached out in vain to the sliding glass door.

Hutch slung him into the wall. The guy hit hard, grunting, and Hutch grabbed his collar, punched him in the face. Then lower on the jaw. Grabbed him again and flung him one more time into the wall, grabbed again and sent him into the glass. He didn’t think about it, just did it. The scumbag twisted frantically, his left side crashing into the window. The frame rattled and the glass shuddered but held. Hutch reached out again, fingers closing on air, and there was Starsky, yanking his cuffs from his pocket and slapping them over the guy’s wrists. The guy was pulling in sobbing breaths, blood running from his nose, his pants sliding down over his ass again. Hutch took a step forward and Starsky stepped in front of him, his face set. Hutch went another step. Starsky’s body pushed into his. Their eyes clashed. There was nothing to do but back off or fight.

After a long moment, Hutch backed off. “Pull his fucking pants up, willya?” He walked into the front room.

He stood over the naked, unmoving girl. There was purple discoloration around her neck, and lots of blood. “Call an ambulance, Hutch,” Starsky said sharply, pushing the suspect in front of him and out the front door.

Hutch moved to the phone and made the call. 

Starsky watched him the rest of the evening, gauging his actions. Hutch knew he’d slipped, had gone too far. He made certain he didn’t slip again, and Starsky let it go. For now.

 

  


	11. Chapter 11

TWENTY-ONE DAYS AFTER

 

Beautiful men, opposites, the two of them. Light and dark. There was an intensity in Starsky’s face, watching Hutch and Sandra. Predatory, dangerous. She leaned over and brushed her lips against Hutch’s, testing, then looked directly at Starsky in the flashing lights of the bar. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table; she saw them whiten. He smiled at her, a twitch of his mouth upward, but she wasn’t fooled. True predators don’t know how to smile. 

Hutch wasn’t oblivious to what passed between her and Starsky. There was a hard glint in his pale eyes belying the softness and warmth of his lips on hers. She whispered in his ear, a question, and he leaned his head against hers, his soft hair brushing her face. His lips touched her ear, his teeth bit her lobe. She gasped and his tongue followed, soothing the small hurt. She pulled back, flashing him an open challenge with her eyes. Hutch smiled.

Not until he’d finished the last drop of beer and settled the bottle back down on the table did his eyes meet Starsky’s. Starsky watched him with raised eyebrows. _You really want to do this?_ the eyes asked.

Hutch’s lips curled in a reckless grin. The lights flashed over his skin and clothing as he sat back against the wall in an elaborately casual manner, watching his partner.

Starsky’s smile spread slowly over his face. _A challenge?_ _Oughta know better by now._

Hutch nodded at him and swallowed his thoughts in another beer.

 

~oOo~

 

Hutch couldn’t help but flash onto Gillian’s face as he pulled off his clothes. How she looked in the moonlight in his bed, her body pearly white, limbs long and perfectly shaped. He blinked the vision back and the feelings that came with it, willing it into the recesses of his mind, but not before a childish, angry question came: _What do you think of this, Gillian?_

Probably not much. The lady was a hooker, after all. Nothing new under the sun. 

Besides, she was dead. 

The wildness in Starsky’s eyes almost matched Hutch’s of late, as if he’d tried to take his partner’s anguish into himself when nothing else made it fade. Starsky didn’t leave Hutch alone much lately, didn’t allow him to be unaccountable, and so they argued. Starsky was unyielding in a charming, irritating way, a puppy pulling a trouser leg in usual relentless Starsky fashion. It irritated the hell out of Hutch—the man might as well move in with him. As a matter of fact, Hutch wasn’t quite sure he _hadn’t_. But babysitting didn’t prevent Starsky from having some fun for himself while he was at it. Granted it wasn’t helping his relationship with Nancy any, but only because he didn’t spend as much time with her—and when he did he usually dragged Hutch along. But what the hell. They dated pretty casually, anyway.

Hutch wanted something, anything to get away from the stench of failure with yet another woman he loved, trusted, wanted only to keep safe and make happy. Drinking became more and more a regular part of their nights, that and picking up women. Didn’t help, but then it didn’t hurt.

He didn't care if it did. Too many failures and not enough reasons why left only himself to blame.

Sandra pulled off her blouse, slowly, Starsky a dark shadow standing beside her, and Hutch’s mind came back to the present. Her long hair settled against the smooth skin of her back and shoulders. One of her hands dipped beneath the waistline of her pants, rubbing. Touching herself. She was lovely.

_She’s not Gillian_ , his mind insisted helplessly, so he strangled the thought to a slow death. Just another night spent wiping out the memories.

_Everybody’s a user tonight._

He lay down on his back on the bed and watched the show, blanking his mind.

 

~oOo~

 

Sandra’s eyes moved over their faces. Midday blue, midnight blue. Two pairs of eyes drilled holes into her as her shirt came off. Her skin broke out in goose bumps, and her nipples rose hard and pebbled.

Hutch couldn’t dance worth a damn at the bar, but still his clothes came flowing off him like water, quick and graceful. His legs were long and muscled, and his chest gleamed in the low light from the street lamps outside, a marble statue, smooth. She wanted to touch him, his clean lines. He lay down on her bed and folded his arms behind his head. His cock jutted upwards but he didn’t move, didn’t touch himself. 

Starsky stood there, only watching, until Sandra turned to him. She tugged at his shirt and he pulled it over his head, his hair going haywire. His chest was furry and she reached out to touch it, rubbed it, muscles rippling beneath her fingers. Then came the jeans. He was so dark—midnight to Hutch’s moonlight. His eyes were hungry, primal.

_Hutch wants the moment, nothing more,_ she thought. Starsky wanted . . . her? Maybe. But she noticed his eyes on his friend’s long body as well.

She didn’t know them, wanted only to fuck them. Everyone wants to forget, sometimes. But even she felt their connection, instinctively, emotions feeding one from another, Hutch’s craziness winding into Starsky. And he let it in. Which meant he was almost as crazy. But it was all more than she really cared to know.

She reached out and ran a hand over Starsky’s ass, beautifully shaped, compact. His skin was hot, and muscles bunched beneath her fingers. She traced the shape of his buttocks around to the tops of his thighs, brushing the hair there lightly. He reached for her, breath hitching in his chest, but she turned around and sank to the bed on all fours. His fingers trailed over her bottom, down her legs as she moved away. 

 

~oOo~

 

_What, no underwear?_ Hutch grinned in the dim light. _Are you really ready for this, Starsk?_ Then, as Starsky’s jeans sagged to the floor—g _uess you are._ Hutch’s smile grew, and he smothered a laugh.

Starsky didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed at facing his best friend with a hard-on, but then, neither had Hutch. Starsky smiled back at his partner, though there wasn’t much humor in it, somehow. Too much intensity. A shiver rolled over Hutch’s skin and the smile died on his face as Sandra’s hands trailed over Starsky’s ass, light on dark skin, making their way front and forward.

Sandra turned around to Hutch just as Starsky reached for her, dropping onto the bed on all fours and crawling over the long length of him on the bed. Her breasts swayed as she moved. Hutch winked at his partner, standing there empty-handed, and then her mouth came down, tongue curling over and around his. Starsky flew from his mind. Her body lowered onto Hutch, settled onto him, breasts and heat and smooth skin, and his arms came around her back. Eyes closed, his cock pressed upward, hardness against softness, mouths exploring each other frantically.

Suddenly there was a cool draft of air between them as she lifted her body from his. Her mouth left him, and his arms fell back over his head. He guessed she was going to Starsky.

Another thought of Gillian advanced on him. He choked it off brutally and chased it away, eyes closed. Then the electric feel of a wet mouth traced its way up the center of his chest, and his breath caught in his throat. He arched into it, heart surging, pulse galloping. Teeth scraped across his bare skin, stopped at a nipple, lapping, urging it to a taut peak. He groaned. His cock throbbed. Fingers slipped into his own, overhead, and held him down. 

The mouth came down over his, hard lips claiming him, tongue tracing his own, gently but wanting, needing him, and he knew. Had known. Sandra wanted him but didn’t need him. Nobody needed him that way. So he’d told himself.

His lips tingled with electric shock even while his body bowed upward helplessly to meet the tongue exploring his mouth, the lips roaming over his own, tasting, devouring. Starsky’s breathing was harsh, and his hands clasped Hutch’s roughly, pushing down into the pillows. Hutch’s pale body shook and hummed with the enormity of what was happening, but alcohol and reckless curiosity pushed it back.

They’d flirted for years with eyes and mouths and touch. They’d seen each other naked countless times. They had no personal space. And now his best friend’s tongue was in his mouth, ravenous, and the dark beginnings of his beard scraped Hutch’s sensitive skin.

He tasted good. He tasted like he’d always known Starsky would.

These long nights after Gillian died, all the drinking and the fucking, nothing, nothing was enough until now when Starsky’s mouth moved on his, exploring every corner of his lips, worrying them with his teeth, burrowing into him, tasting of beer and warmth and wanting. Starsky’s groan was in Hutch’s ear, vulnerable, ragged, and Hutch thought for a moment that the sound of it alone could make him come.

_Where in hell is this coming from?_ He and the alcohol worked at subduing his runaway worries to mere flashes: the future, what they would do next, how they’d act with each other. He thought too damned much, anyway.

_Doesn’t matter_ , he kept repeating to himself. His mantra. It only mattered that it felt good, better than he’d thought even in the wildest wanderings of the imagination.

He twined his tongue languorously around Starsky’s, experimenting. It was strange to have such heat and strength and fierceness clasping his hands so tightly, and in his mouth, and pushing him down into the bed. To have the fevered rigidity of Starsky’s cock pressing his hipbone. He rubbed against it, arching, experimenting, and Starsky moaned again, a low rumble in his chest.

His nerve floated high and sweet above him and Hutch made a noise he couldn’t help, then, so unrecognizable to him as to almost be a separate thing.

Starsky’s dark eyes flew open, made more striking by the shadow-lashes lining them. He smiled at the noise Hutch made.

_Beautiful. I always knew that,_ Hutch thought, meeting his look, but unable to hide the shock of what was happening to him, how it felt to have Starsky’s hands on his body—a still and numbed disbelief, combined with the high-buzz of sex. Starsky saw it in his face, the glassy look in his eyes. Uncertainty overcame the passion and he pulled away, slightly. Then more.

Hutch couldn’t move. Couldn’t say anything until the guilt and anger in his partner’s eyes turned away and it was too late.

Then Hutch screamed after him, a sound without words, unable to express what he wanted in any way that made sense, but Sandra was there, lips covering the sound, moving over him, cool, slender fingers sliding around his cock. For a second he wanted to strangle her while she pumped him. Her lips moved against him. He didn’t respond, and opened his eyes. Starsky was behind her, his hands on Sandra’s breasts. His mouth on her ass. 

Hutch’s mind went white and he kissed her savagely. He touched her and fucked her, no gentleness to him, and knew that Starsky watched and wanted him. And that he wanted Starsky.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

TWENTY-ONE DAYS AFTER

 

He left in the early morning darkness, no excuses made, pulling from Sandra’s body, still semi-erect after an explosive orgasm that opened up into a large and howling emptiness in his head. It kept growing and he knew it would only grow more as his partner rolled on his side to face Sandra.

Hutch drove home. Starsky’d just have to get a cab. He went into his apartment, opened the fridge and drank some more beer, trying to chase away the images of the evening. Images of passion burning in blue eyes, and ghost hands, holding him down. It didn’t work, and by now beer tasted like pure hell, but hell was what he wanted so he drank some more.

Less than an hour later and the door opened. The lights were off but Hutch knew his partner’s footsteps outside the door before it ever opened. Starsky walked to him, a dark shadow, and crouched beside his partner, put his hand on his knee.

“We gotta do something, Hutch. You know?” Starsky’s voice was soft as velvet, halting, and Hutch drank it in. “I’m trying to keep up with you but it isn’t working, so you gotta tell me what I can do, okay? You’re stuck, buddy, I’ve never seen you stop taking care of yourself, stop caring about everything.” 

“I loved her, Starsky, and I can’t get over it because you think it’s time,” he answered, his voice dragging. _Don’t think about anything else._

Starsky squeezed his leg. “No, there’s more to this. Something’s got you to the point where I’m startin’ not to recognize you. C’mon, Hutch, if I can see that, then can’t you?”

“Just what the fuck _is_ enough, then, to bring me down to the depths you think I’ve sunk to.” He wanted to sound angry but his voice carried only tiredness.

Starsky’s fingers rubbed softly against Hutch’s denim-clad leg, and small runners of warmth and electricity traced their way up through his flesh.

“You tell me.”

Hutch blinked into the darkness, struggling to contain the sudden anger that replaced the emptiness in his chest. _It isn’t enough she’s dead? There has to be more?_ His pulse raced and heat flushed his face, but Starsky couldn’t see it in the dark.

“Gotcha, partner. Let’s see. Maybe you’re thinking I want to fuck your brains out as much as you do mine?” he said, voice deceptively soft. “That’d be enough to fuck up my head, right?” He placed his hand deliberately down on Starsky’s fingers and squeezed. “Has it fucked up yours?” Starsky was frozen. “What’s the matter, Starsk? I’m talking to you, now, just like you wanted, hm?” He sank down onto the floor and leaned close. “As I recall, you’re the one who tried to nail me to the couch,” he breathed, drawing still closer to Starsky’s face. “So you tell me, what do I need to get over this, Doc?” he asked.

“God you’re a bastard.” Starsky’s voice was flat.

Hutch moved closer. Starsky hardly ever acted in fear, and now he didn’t move, didn’t speak, but Hutch knew he was wary. _He’s only afraid when you get hurt, you asshole. He knows you’re hurting now, no matter how well you think you’re covering._ But that only made the thing in his chest twist like a live snake, wanting to strike.

“Confession’s good for the soul, Starsk. You’ve got the floor.” 

“I already did, remember? On the couch that night. No words to it, Blondie, but I think you got the message. I know I did,” Starsky answered, his voice neutral. 

“How’d that go, exactly? I remember my part, but yours . . . lemme see if I remember it . . . ” Hutch breathed, and lowered his face to Starsky’s. His fingers wrapped around his partner’s jaw, stroking. Starsky pulled in a deep breath but didn’t move away.

Hutch’s mouth touched his, sliding, tasting, with lips and tongue. It was strange—he knew the small bow in the upper lip, how it would curve when Starsky was amused, or irritated, or bored. But he’d never known what it _felt_ like, never even thought about the indentation of warm, salty skin beneath his lips.

It felt good.

He pulled Starsky down with him on the floor, grinding his mouth into his. Harder, then frantic, and then suddenly he couldn’t breathe past his need. Something inside Starsky erupted and he groaned, grabbing Hutch’s hair at the back of his head, sank his fingers into it, pulling, thrashing up to meet him. Their tongues meshed together, curling over one another, exploring, and still it wasn’t enough.

Hutch’s body straddled Starsky’s, his hand lowering to his partner’s throat, caressing the thin skin there, warm beneath his fingers. Starsky’s shirt was all but unbuttoned and Hutch ran a hand down into it, marveling at the feel of the hair there, softer than he’d thought. He ran a long finger lightly over the nub of a hard nipple, then again, feeling a shiver course over Starsky’s flesh. He pinched it between his fingers, experimenting, and Starsky made a sound somewhere between a shout and a plea in Hutch’s mouth, then ripped his lips from his partner’s. 

“Goddamn you Hutch, is this is some kind of fucking game—” but Hutch’s mouth rammed over his again, their teeth clicking together, fingers holding his face as if afraid he’d get away. Starsky pushed back, a small sound of greed and hunger forcing its way past his guard. His tongue slid over Hutch’s and his cock throbbed against his stomach, demanding attention.

“You think I’d play games with you, Starsky?” Hutch pulled away. His voice was low, taunting. Starsky sucked in a harsh breath at the sound, afraid of the feeling behind it.

Hutch shrugged, answering his own question. “Maybe. But you know, too, don’t you, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do—” and Hutch’s head moved lower over his body, fingers trailing behind over the hair and warm skin beneath the open shirt.

“I-I know. Oh God—” He wanted to tell Hutch to stop

 _liar_  

but instead he watched, mesmerized. He’d never been so overpowered by need and lust, never been so out of control. Even his skin felt too tight for his body.

The blond head lowered further. Even in the dark that hair shone, always had. Starsky’s mind roared and his cock ached and his balls drew up against his body as Hutch’s mouth licked down his stomach, biting, then soothing. Hutch’s body held him down, captive, shaking, straining. Helpless.

 _Just this once. Just to know, once._ “Hutch, Hutch, you’re going somewhere and I don’t know if I can get us back—” 

“Then stop it, Starsk. Can you stop it? Tell me to stop.” 

“Do what the fuck you want!” Starsky yelled, hating himself, hating Hutch. _Why can’t you tell him to stop?_ His own voice echoed his partner’s, contemptuous.

Hutch ripped at the button on Starsky’s blue jeans. The zipper would have sounded loud in the room but for their breathing. Hutch moved down to Starsky’s feet, pulled at a shoe, cursed. “Kick ‘em off, Starsk.” The shoes came off, and he tugged the jeans down and off, leaving them in a heap on the floor where he tossed them. Coins from the pockets rolled over the floor. His fingers came in under the waistband of Starsky’s underwear, pulled it down, cock springing free. It bobbed against the dark skin of his stomach. Hutch looked at it, then at Starsky, and the look was charming, golden Hutch, smiling sweetly, but the eyes were wide, nothing in them 

_no, I gotta stop this—_

but the voice was only in Starsky’s mind, and Starsky’s mind wasn’t what wanted to play. Hutch’s mouth opened and took the crown of his cock in, sucking delicately, licking, then sucking him in again, strong. Starsky’s muscles stretched in taut relief under his skin, and his heart pounded like thunder, his sanity a slow second buried behind the feeling of the wet mouth laving over him.

_Hutch’s mouth. My God. Hutch._

Hutch suctioned him in, then blew a long breath out, clamping down around Starsky, inhaled him, further, harder— 

and gagged. He couldn’t seem to stop choking and coughing. The sound of it was harsh in the otherwise silent apartment. Starsky sat up, trying to stuff all his feelings back into his body, which suddenly seemed too impossibly small to contain them. His head floated down from the ceiling in an effort to once again grasp reality. He felt sick to his stomach.

Hutch leaned on one arm, breathing hard, some crazy noise deep down in his throat trying to make its way out. He sounded like a wounded animal. Starsky touched his hair.

“C’mon. Hutch? I’m sorry, God I’m sorry,” and then stopped, swallowing hard, holding his own emotions in check with each breath. Just hanging on.

Hutch wouldn’t look at him. “You didn’t say no.”

“My usual back-up went AWOL,” Starsky replied miserably.

Hutch swung his head up, startled, and smiled tentatively almost as if he’d forgotten how. “Yeah? I guess it did.” 

“Give me my damn pants, Hutch.” Starsky’s voice rose, lashing out in frustration and building fury. “Fuck you, by the way. I’d like to smash you in the face, you know that, nobody can take the crap you dished out tonight. I’m telling you for the last time, step back from whatever the hell it is in your head while you’ve got a friend to help you do it. “ 

“Starsk. Maybe we can’t get over this one. I mean, I had your dick in my mouth. For Christ sake.” 

“Starsky winced. “It’s removable. I mean from your . . . uh . . . shit,” he said, and startled himself with a sudden loud whoop of a laugh that faded too soon. “I don’t know what I’m doing here at all, to tell you the truth.” He paused. “You fucking coward.” 

“Coward. Name calling now?” Hutch glared at him.

“You heard it right the first time,” Starsky said, struggling back into his pants. 

“Where the hell do you get off—” 

“Because I’m your partner. The one who goes after the bad guys with you, time after time. And we win. You’re the best cop I know, Hutch. And I’m your best friend, still your best friend—” Starsky’s voice broke for a bare instant. “—if only because I’m a moron. But I don’t know if we win this time. Don’t know if you’ve left enough of us that can still look each other in the eye.” 

They looked at each other in silence.

“Oh God,” Hutch breathed, hanging his head. “What the fuck, what the _fuck_ am I doing.” He squeezed his eyelids tightly together.

“Didn’t say I’m going anywhere, asshole. I don’t know what to do is all.” Starsky forced himself to touch Hutch’s shoulder, though at the moment it was the last thing he wanted. Somehow they’d stepped into an alternate reality where they were a threat to each other and their relationship was breakable. He was almost afraid to breathe.

“Why didn’t you stop?” 

“Leave it, Hutch.”

“You always do what it takes, you know. You’re the black and white guy, Starsk, no in between, always doing what you think is right, no matter how much it costs you. Always have.” Hutch’s face was pale, eyes searching for the answer in Starsky.

“You sonovabitch.” He grabbed Hutch’s shirt by two fists and shook him. “Is that what you thought would happen? Well guess what, you screwed up.”

“Why?” 

“Because it was you. Because I wanted it. You know what, I still do,” hearing his voice go smooth, mocking. He let go of his partner’s shirt. _My God, shut up. How desperate are you?_ He was unbelievably angry, hurt, but more, his pride had been in the ring and received a knock-out punch. He’d been played royally.

So his partner acting out this insanity meant _he_ had to go nuts as well? 

He pulled down his zipper.

Apparently.

“Not too late, Hutch,” Starsky said, past the voice inside screaming at him to backpedal.

Hutch smiled and said, soft, “No. You’re right, Starsk,” and Starsky stepped back, stunned. And then the big hands were around the back of his head, pulling Starsky towards him, and something broke open in them both, something not quite sane. They lunged for each other, Starsky’s lips devouring Hutch’s, feeling those wide, soft lips against him for the second time that night. Starsky’s hard-on roared back to life, heedless of the earlier disaster. 

“Playing with fire, buddy?” Hutch said, pulling back and grabbing Starsky’s hand, placing it over the bulge in his pants. Starsky rubbed the rounded bottom of the bulge with his fingers while dragging the palm of his hand hard against Hutch’s cock beneath the jeans. Hutch grunted and slammed him backwards into the nearest wall for his trouble, kissing him again.

“Ow. You’re not manhandling a two-bit crook in the street, here. I said I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Shut up. Take it off. And this time, I mean all of it, all the way off.” 

Starsky stared at him, trying to regain some semblance of sanity. It was no use. He’d been drunk for a month, tonight had soundly screwed a woman he could care less about, and to top matters off his best friend in the whole world had sucked his cock. And had gagged, apparently revolted by the thought of said cock.

And they were gonna go for it again.

Against every rational thought in his head, Starsky followed an instinct too small to bet on. “Bedroom. No more floors.”

Clothes came off, each piece tossed on the floor, marking their progress. Hands rushed over each square inch of newly revealed skin. Hutch kissed Starsky down onto the bed, pushing his body with his own. Finally Hutch got a lip nicked hard enough to bleed and that slowed them down some. Hutch’s mouth was soft, swollen, and he ducked his head in and out, tasting Starsky’s lips, sucking, rubbing, pulling away for an instant, then coming back. His hands brushed over a part of Starsky’s body each time. Starsky gave up chasing him and tried to relax and enjoy it, but his blood was rushing and humming through his veins and his cock felt heavy as stone. He kept jerking upwards trying to push himself into Hutch’s hands. Hutch’s mouth landed on Starsky’s bottom lip, coasting upwards at the same time as his fingers skimmed over Starsky’s cock, then lifted away. Starsky choked out a protest, but Hutch just covered his mouth with his until Starsky was quiet. He repeated the matching strokes on Starsky’s mouth and cock until he squirmed, cursing. Hutch’s head lowered over his body until Starsky stopped him, grasping the muscled arm in his hand.

“Haven’t you had enough of that for today—” he started, but Hutch was gone from his grip and Starsky was engulfed in a long, wet slide of mouth. Yelling, he rocked up on the bed, pawing at Hutch’s smooth back.

Hutch was insistent, stroking him swiftly, sucking hard, sliding back to tongue the skin just beneath the crown. No gagging this time.

He was surprised at how easy it was. Strange, touching Starsky the way he’d only other touched women before, but good. His partner’s body jerked upwards helplessly, and Hutch’s insides clenched. More. He wanted to make Starsky _feel._ He delved his tongue into the slit of Starsky’s cock as hands pressed down on his head. He wrapped his lips around the crown like a lollipop and sucked some more. And some more. And now his hands rejoined the act.

“Huuutch, you better—ah, _God_ , I’m gonna, you better get outta the way—” and that’s all he had time to say. Hutch replaced his mouth with tightly wrapped fingers when Starsky’s cock jumped, pumping him into a rippling orgasm that lasted forever. Starsky shouted, then collapsed open-mouthed and panting against the pillows. Gradually the spasms diminished and Starsky went limp against the mattress. “Godamighty Sweet Jesus and the Second Coming,” he said, and Hutch laughed, scooting up beside him.

His lips were flushed and swollen, blond hair mussed and curling at the ends. Starsky’s hand came down to his face, touching the reddened spots on Hutch’s fair skin around the mouth.

“My beard did this? Looks like windburn,” Starsky murmured, his voice husky. His hand flopped down to land on Hutch’s cock, which leapt at his touch. Starsky wrapped his fingers around it, smiling. “You’re kind of big, you know that?” he asked, eying his partner’s equipment. He stroked up the shaft. “And are you _sure_ you haven’t done that before?”

Hutch gasped and pushed into Starsky’s hand. “I’m sure. Well, I mean I thought of it before. Lately. Usually when extremely drunk. With you, I mean,” he said. Starsky’s mouth lowered to follow his hand, and Hutch grabbed his hair, halting him. “What are you doing?”

“My taxes, Sherlock. Let go.”

You’re—do you know how to do this?”

“Better than you, I bet,” said Starsky, and laughed when Hutch looked affronted. “What’s wrong?”

“What if you . . . what if you . . . how do you know you’ll like it?”

Starsky threw Hutch an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right? After my confession and all? You’re my walking wet dream,” Starsky teased, and Hutch reddened. “I want to, Hutch. Don’t doubt it, okay?” Hutch looked away and nodded, and Starsky’s body moved lower. “Look at this damned thing. You’re kind of pretty, too. You know it?” Starsky asked, inspecting, and blew gently. Hutch, who’d been about to give him the finger, arched back instead, biting off a moan.

“Yeah, that’s what all the girls say,” Hutch managed to get out before Starsky blew again.

You like that, huh.” Starsky’s mouth lowered all around Hutch, but still wide open, trying not to touch skin. 

“Oh my _God,_ Starsky, shut up and—and—please?” Starsky closed his mouth around him in a rush, stroking his hand in time with his mouth down to the base. “Oh mygod—” 

“I think you’re the one needs to shut up,” Starsky stopped, mumbling through a mouthful. “You’re ruinin’ my concentration—”

Hutch yanked his hair. “I’m not the only one who yelled around here tonight. _Pal_.”

Starsky’s body floated slowly back up until he faced Hutch. “You really don’t want to piss me off right now, do you?” Hutch shook his head _no_ , eyes rounded. “Good.” He smiled widely, and looked Hutch full in the eyes. “You taste just like a wet dream should,” he said deliberately, delighting in Hutch’s embarrassed frown. “I’m a lucky man.” He dropped back down. “I was just kidding about the yelling, though. Yell all you want.” Hutch squirmed as Starsky’s fingers slid down the length of him, followed by his lips, and Hutch pumped helplessly into the warm mouth surrounding him. His fingers dug into the crumpled sheets, remaining obstinately silent. But his face turned pink.

“ _Let it out,”_ Starsky ordered, and slid his lips over the crown of Hutch’s cock, dragging his teeth lightly over the edges. He sucked down the shaft and back up, resuming his rhythm. Hutch’s skin heated and tightened, and Starsky listened to the sounds he made, amazed and aroused all over again. Starsky felt him tremble, felt the muscles of his legs tense, and gave him one last, long, magnificent slide of mouth and hand from base to tip. It was a hell of a trip.

Hutch yelled, long and loud, and Starsky grinned, trying to jam his heart back down where it belonged at the sight of that long throat arching back as the morning light flooded in through the window.

He was just glad they weren’t at _his_ place. Hutch’s neighbors were probably in an uproar by now.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

TWENTY-THREE DAYS AFTER

 

“So you dug out the candles? Must be someone special,” Starsky announced, entering the front door.

Hutch turned, a smile lighting up his face. “Yep. Must be.” He walked to the kitchen and pulled a tomato from the windowsill. “Ah, here we are. Mr. Stripey.”

“Hutch, you talk to your plants, but naming your tomatoes?” Starsky sighed. “You know you’re just weird.” 

“No, Starsk. Mr. Stripey is a type of tomato.” 

“Leave it to you. Hafta be introduced to your food before you eat it.”

Hutch laughed. “You want some dinner or not?”

 

~oOo~

 

It was dark in the bedroom, Starsky sprawled naked on his back, sweat damp in his hair. There wasn’t a bone left in his body. Couldn’t be. They’d all dissolved.

Hutch lay beside him on his stomach, arm surrounding a pillow. “We have to be careful, Starsk.”

“I’m careful.” Starsky yawned, and reached out to rub a boneless hand over Hutch’s ass. “I can’t walk.”

“So don’t.”

“Gotta take a piss.”

“Oh. Okay, just roll across the floor or something.”

“You just ain’t funny.”

“It’s our jobs. It’s everything. We can’t look at each other that way.” Hutch’s face and eyes were steady. Serious.

“What way?”

Hutch tipped his head, considering Starsky. “That way. The way you’re looking at me now.”

Starsky grinned at him, unconcerned. “Nah, I’m not doing this. I’m not worrying it to death, thinking about tomorrow, next month, what people on the job think. This is ours, Hutch. We’re not stupid or naïve. Let it go, we know what’s at stake.”

Hutch sighed, choosing the path of least resistance for the moment. He felt too good.

“Listen, I want to ask you something.”

Hutch stifled a yawn. “So ask.”

“Remember when I asked you what else was wrong? What else besides, uh, Gillian, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice was noncommittal.

“What else was it?”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t hand me that. C’mon. Please.”

“You always have to know what’s going on in my head, why is that?” asked Hutch, irritation showing.

“Because I—” Starsky said, and clamped down on sudden thought and feeling. He’d almost said _I love you_ without a second thought. “Because,” Starsky said, stammering as Hutch’s gaze sharpened and whipped to his, “What’s going on in that insane asylum in there affects me almost as much as you. I gotta keep up on your mental health, pard.”

Hutch rolled over and fitted his body to Starsky’s, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “That it, huh.”

“Yeah.”

Hutch’s hand rested on Starsky’s flat stomach, absently rubbing. “Okay, okay. Well . . . ah, you know . . . I used to think we made a difference out there. Most days I still do, I guess. But then . . . things happen.” His voice dropped lower. It was mesmerizing. “There you are on top of the world, right? In love, loved, everything’s perfect. Or it would be, but it’s all a lie to begin with. Gillian lied, and I never got to face her with it because that motherfucker choked the life out of her, broke her neck. How long did she feel the pain? Did she know she was dying? Was it quick or slow?”

“Hutch—”

“You wanted to hear this, so hear it. I—I kept wondering, thinking about that, and all the drinking in the world didn’t stop it. I couldn’t save her, couldn’t tell her what I thought of her schemes, didn’t have a chance to live with the knowledge of the lies before she was just . . . gone. I never got to tell her how angry I was at what she’d done, you know?” He was silent a moment. “And then it just seemed to get bigger. Like . . . how many failures, how many days out on the street before all you see is the bad guys winning and you stop caring? I think I almost did.”

“No,” Starsky said. “No. That’s not you.”

“Yeah? Someday, Starsk. I’m telling you.”

“No. Remember? You’re gonna save the world—” But the words slipped out and faded, fell down a black hole, replaced by Gillian’s voice in his head. _Starsky, I love him. I love him. Does that count for anything?_

He’d gotten a chance to hear what Gillian had to say, looked into her eyes when he’d told her what he knew. But not Hutch. He hadn’t known until it was too late.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Hutch touched Starsky’s dark hair, the back of his neck.

_I’ve got no choice?_ A trembling voice, childlike. Starsky listened. His hands balled the sheets in his fists. Hutch’s voice was far away, demanding, concerned, but he had to hear what she needed to say first.

And when it had all played out again and fell silent in his head, Starsky opened his eyes and told Hutch what he’d done.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

TWENTY-SIX DAYS AFTER

 

Starsky had expected more than the cold frost that descended between them. It was all calm, no outbursts. Hutch walked around looking off into some faraway place. Didn’t talk much. Pretty much ignored Starsky when he could, but politely, and was even-toned when he couldn’t. They were partners, after all. But there was no more getting together after work, no more touching. As if the touching and the heat had never happened.

 _Well_ , Starsky amended, _there’s still heat, anyway._ _It’s just all one-sided._ Hutch was like cool blue water, no reflections, standing right there in front of him and yet somehow removed from the situation. Starsky was the opposite, white heat in overtime. He couldn’t stop the erections, not very well, and cold showers were highly overrated and not possible when he needed them most. It was an embarrassment.

It had been three days ago that he’d told Hutch about his visit to Gillian, and after an initial shocked interruption, Hutch had let him finish his story without another word. His eyes were pain-filled but already growing colder before the story was finished. Starsky faced him resolutely the whole time he recited his part in the events leading up to Gillian’s death. He tried not to flinch at the look in his partner's eyes.

Part of him wanted to point out his reasons for his actions. To touch, seek reassurance. But it wasn’t necessary. Hutch would know the reasons why, and Starsky couldn’t touch the man if he didn’t want to be touched. Not again.

And so far the man didn’t want to be touched.

  

 


	15. Chapter 15

TWENTY-NINE DAYS AFTER

 

The lanky guy in the small grocer’s store threw a wall of stacked soup cans over onto the detectives and ran out the door. Starsky did a somersault over most of them and landed in a corner, cursing viciously, while Hutch stumbled backwards into another set of shelves. He righted himself and raced out the door while Starsky was still slamming into things.

The suspect rushed out into the bright sunshine and climbed into a battered old car. The vehicle had started and Hutch’s weapon was drawn when a little girl ran out across the way, her terrified mother screaming as she spotted the gun. Hutch dodged around the pair and threw himself on the hood of the moving car. He hooked his left arm around the open side of the passenger window and banged on the windshield with the handle of his gun. The metal edge of the windshield caught the sunlight, and Hutch squinted inside. At least the guy didn’t have a weapon, he’d already tossed it down in the store at Starsky’s orders.

Hutch slid the gun across the glass and pointed it at the perp’s face. The guy was accelerating fast, panic written all over him, and when he saw the tip of the muzzle slide over he swung the wheel sharply. Hutch tried to hold on and failed, his body flying off the car, swinging round, skidding backwards on the pavement. His shirt pulled up with the drag. The skin burned over his ribs.

Starsky pelted down the parking lot after them. He stopped, squinting after the fleeing car. “Got it,” he muttered, repeating the license number one more time. He turned around and saw the blood smeared pavement in front of Hutch, the body facedown, unmoving.

“Hutch!” he yelled. Suddenly all the air in the world wasn’t enough for breathing. He knew he’d taken the guy’s gun from him. Was there another, had he missed it? “No, no way,” he whispered, and fell on his knees beside his partner. He touched the back of the bright hair, ruffling in a light breeze. “Hutch. Say something.”

“Hurts,” Hutch moaned and tried to lift his head. The right cheek and below was bloody, too.

“Call an ambulance, now!” Starsky bellowed at the gathering crowd and leaned in closer. “Hutch, are you shot?”

“Ah, God.” Hutch’s voice was thin. “Goddamn it hurts.” He tried to turn, but couldn’t. “Will you _help_ me?”

Starsky helped him turn over. His shirt was pulled high on his chest, and where the skin was bare, the ribs were masked in blood, trailing off down his stomach. The skin was lacerated, bits of blacktop and tiny rocks embedded in places. Starsky’s breath hissed inward at the sight. He composed himself, leaning down to inspect the scraped skin.

He didn’t see any entry wounds. Closing his eyes, he offered a quick thanks heavenward and grabbed Hutch’s hand, holding it like a lifeline. Hutch squeezed it, and Starsky’s hand trembled. “It’ll be okay, Hutch, I promise. The ambulance will be here any minute. You’re gonna be okay. You’re scraped up pretty badly.”

“You think?” was Hutch’s outraged reply. A couple of tears spilled from his eyes and down into his hair.

Starsky swiped at the tears and Hutch groaned again, squeezing Starsky’s hand until the bones popped. Starsky let him. It seemed a nightmare eternity until the ambulance arrived, though Starsky’s watch said it took all of five minutes.


	16. Chapter 16

THIRTY-ONE DAYS AFTER

 

“Look, I can manage on my own,” Hutch said.

“Yeah, I bet. Doesn’t matter. I’m not leavin’ you alone.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Hutch said.

Starsky swung around in his tracks and headed for Hutch, his face set. “No more. You hear me?”

Hutch’s eyebrows rose. “Go home, Starsk.”

“If you _ever_ get your head on straight and figure out that Your Royal Pain in the Neck needs me,” Starsky started, then stopped. “No, not if. _When._ Some damn day, when your thick skull accepts the truth—” and realized with dismay that he was no longer talking about Hutch’s injury or even their friendship. Turning his back, he started for the door, grabbing his windbreaker from the back of a chair. He looked up at his partner. “It gets old, Hutch. Real old.”

Hutch watched the door close. “I know it does,” he whispered.

 


	17. Chapter 17

THIRTY-THREE DAYS AFTER

 

The phone was ringing. Starsky squinted at the clock in the darkness. “This better be good,” he snapped into the receiver.

“You know that first time?”

“Huh? Hutch, you okay?”

“That first time together, Starsk. I was gonna . . . gonna give you what you wanted, you know? No matter what. I didn’t have any feeling about it, or for you. At least I didn’t want to. I never wanted to feel again. But I couldn’t do it. How did you know, Starsky, that I—how did you _know_ , even after everything?”

Starsky was sitting up, heart banging unpleasantly against his ribs with the sudden surge of adrenaline coming on the heels of a sound sleep. He shrugged, forgetting that Hutch couldn’t see him. “I don't know. Maybe . . . just things. Like when I jumped you at your apartment that time. You . . . responded. At first. Took you a few minutes to walk away. Ah hell, I don’t know, Hutch. You’ve been part of me for a long time now.”

“You knew, even when I didn’t?”

“I _hoped._ And something changed that night.” He paused. “What was it?”

“You were going to leave and there was no way to make it up. There was only making it over. And I wanted to.”

Starsky breathed into the phone. “I’m coming over.” He slipped the receiver into its cradle, not waiting for an answer.

It felt like it took forever to get there. Hutch was waiting for him in the living room when he walked in the door at Venice Place.

“You want something to drink?” Hutch asked.

Starsky nodded. “You?”

Hutch nodded, too. Starsky got two root beers and sank onto the couch beside him. Tilting his head back, Starsky took a long drink, the cold sweetness flooding his mouth.

“It was easier, you know? Blaming you for her death. An excuse to pull back, I guess. I got caught up again, wondering how long she lay there on that damn floor, knowing she was dying and I wasn’t coming. How bad did it hurt, how alone did she feel?”

“Why do this, damn it!” Starsky erupted, glaring at his partner.

Hutch returned his look calmly. “Because it’s how I am. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know it.” Starsky blew out a long sighing breath.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t hurt her,” Hutch said, and his voice was gentle.

“Maybe I put her in a position to be hurt.”

“You were looking out for me, same as always. I knew that. But even knowing that wasn’t enough, not at first. I’m sorry, Starsky.”

Starsky looked at Hutch, leaning against the back of the couch. His chest was bare, the skin at his ribs beginning to heal. Starsky leaned over, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away, then placed his lips on Hutch’s, tasting him, relearning. Hutch’s breath twined in his, warming, beginning to speed up.

“You sure you want to go this route again with me?" Starsky drew back, unable to help asking the question.

“Shoulda asked before you got in my face, not after, don't you think?”

“Hutch. You always going to put me through hell?” Starsky whispered.

“It’s what I live for,” Hutch answered, and smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

  


	18. Chapter 18

THIRTY-FIVE DAYS AFTER

 

The two sat on Starsky's couch, Hutch's head against the back of it, while Starsky slouched comfortably against his partner's shoulder. The television was on and though neither of them knew what was playing, their eyes fixed glassily on the luminescent screen. Finally Starsky yawned, blue shadows playing over his face. "Maybe we oughta get some sleep."

“You think?”

“Yeah, I think. Being as someone's kept me up for the past two nights.”

“Someone, huh. It was you kept _me_ up, buddy boy,” Hutch automatically accused.

A faint smile tugged at Starsky’s mouth, eyes sleepily following the action on the screen. Canned laughter spilled from the speakers.

“It was all me, huh? You had nothin’ to do with it.”

“Okay, so maybe we both made up for some lost time,” Hutch finally said low, watching Starsky’s face—the heavy-lidded eyes, messy dark hair, five-o’clock shadow long past five o’clock. Exhaustion made his face pale, his eyes a little puffy, but the soft, open expression on his mouth caught at Hutch’s throat.

Starsky looked away from the screen, tipping his head up to meet Hutch's gaze. He flipped over and leaned harder into Hutch’s body, pushing him down on the couch beneath them, pressing his lips to the skin under Hutch's chin.

“On the other hand, sleep is overrated. You know?” He tongued his way down to the smooth chest.

“Iron men like us don't need sleep,” Hutch agreed, then groaned as Starsky moved over to a tan nipple, sucking the slick flesh into his mouth.

“I gotta be careful. You get marked up too easy.” Starsky's mouth traced the pale curve of muscle at Hutch's arm. Hutch wrapped his hand around Starsky’s jaw, finger tracing his lower lip, then dipped inside his mouth. Starsky caressed it lazily with his tongue.

Hutch pumped his finger a little, and Starsky bit it. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Got better things to do, Blondie. Still have time to make up for, you know.” He nuzzled up under Hutch’s chin again, pulling the thin flesh in between his teeth.

“Starsk. Weren’t you just talking about not marking me up?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Starsky caught Hutch’s hand in his own. “I want . . . be still. Let me, okay?” Starsky’s mouth traced his collarbone, then dipped down the center of his chest.

Hutch tried not to move, but it was hard. “All right. On one condition. Take off your clothes.”

Starsky pushed himself up on his hands to hover over Hutch, his lips unguarded, eyes soft. Hutch couldn’t stop looking at him. All the care-filled lines on his face seemed to have disappeared. He looked so young.

“You first.” He eased down the waistband of Hutch’s shorts, the exposed skin golden in contrast to the white material. He swallowed, eyeing Hutch, but didn’t touch him. Starsky yanked his T-shirt over his own head, ruffling the dark hair on his chest. Next came the jeans and underwear, and then they were both naked.

Starsky’s hands moved down Hutch’s shoulders, then his arms, and he wrapped his hands around Hutch’s, which were curled into fists.

“Relax.” Starsky slid down, his cock throbbing against the warm body beneath him, and mouthed the still-healing flesh around Hutch’s ribs gently. Hutch flinched. “Hurts?”

“No, no,” Hutch breathed. “I didn’t expect it. Touching me there.” His chest rose and fell. Starsky gave the healing skin a final, gentle kiss, then moved down to Hutch’s waistline, then further. He reached out and touched the tip of his tongue to Hutch’s cock, which jumped wildly.

“Glad to see me,” Starsky said, and dragged his tongue around the head. Hutch made a deep noise in his chest and Starsky sucked him in. Hutch thrust his hips upward, moaning, and Starsky’s tongue and lips worked up and down the shaft.

“You—I—let go of my hands, Starsk,” Hutch panted, as coherently as he could. “I wanna—” and Starsky squeezed the head of his cock between his lips in answer. Hutch bowed up from the couch, straining. Veins stood out in his neck. “Let me go!” he yelled.

“I got you right where I want you—with your eyes about to blow back in your head,” Starsky said, but nevertheless freed one of Hutch’s hands, which immediately shot up to grab the back of Starsky's neck. “My way. Okay?” Starsky reminded. “Be still.” Scissoring the base of Hutch’s cock with two fingers, Starsky held him, letting his lips and his teeth and his tongue do all the moving. Starsky’s jaw began to ache, his mouth to tingle, but he ignored it, losing himself in the suction and rhythm, the smooth hard glide of Hutch’s cock against his lips and tongue

Hutch broke out in a fine sweat, chest moving up and down as though he’d run a mile. His muscles quivered. The wave was rising, and he with it, fighting the urge not to buck or push, to let Starsky control it all. He kept on rising with the wave long after he’d thought it would crest, until his toes curled and every breath he pulled in was deeper than the last, a rhythmic gathering of everything he had. Starsky’s lips and tongue caressed him, demanded of him, and the crest broke, slow and powerful, consuming everything within him. He shouted and came crashing down, spilling into Starsky’s waiting mouth.

Starsky swallowed it all and kept moving, sucking and mouthing until Hutch made a small sound of protest and Starsky had to give it up. He threw his body down against the sweaty stomach beneath him, rubbing his face into the heated skin.

“You swallowed it. Gah.” Hutch grimaced and wiped a hand over his steaming forehead.

No answer.

“It tasted bad. Didn’t it.” Still nothing. “Get up here.”

“Tired, Hutch.”

“C’mon.”

Starsky dragged his way up Hutch’s body, his cock bumping along various and sundry parts, and collapsed again. Hutch could barely breathe. The guy was heavier than he looked.

“I just…you’re . . . I’ve never . . . unbelievable.”

“Yeah.” Starsky’s nose settled comfortably in under his chin. He seemed to like that spot.

“Starsk.”

“Yeah.”

“Your turn.”

“I’m good, I’m done.”

Hutch sat up, tumbling Starsky in a heap to the couch beside him. “What?”

“Dammit, Hutch.” Starsky opened an eyeball to squint up at him.

“Shut up. Lie down. Your turn.”

“Don’t make me squirm,” Starsky warned.

“I won’t make you squirm.” A touch of impatience.

“After what I did to you, you’re going to make me squirm. I know it. I did what I wanted, you hear what I’m saying? I’m not up for squirming. Tired.” “Well, if you’re sure you’re too tired.”

Both of Starsky’s eyes opened.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Look, just my hand, Starsk. Okay? That’s all. Lie back.” Hutch eyed the long dark body, then got down on his knees beside the sofa. “You know what? I’ve never really noticed before, but you’ve got killer legs. Seriously.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Hutch leaned over and kissed him, the fingers of one hand on Starsky’s jaw. His hand began a leisurely exploration downward over the flat, hairy chest to find a nipple, stiffening beneath his finger. Hutch’s face was rapt, his fingers tracing ribs, going down the center of the belly, dipping into the bellybutton and out, following the line of hair downwards. His fingers grasped the head of Starsky’s cock and twisted gently, and Starsky arched into his touch.

“Just relax,” said Hutch, the same as Starsky had told him earlier. He was absorbed in every reaction elicited—the way Starsky thrashed, the softness that showed in his eyes. Starsky’s eyes on his were filled with a sense of wonder, as if they’d both discovered something completely unexpected and amazing together. Hutch pumped his cock in measured, sweeping strokes from base to crown, and Starsky moaned, reaching out to touch Hutch’s smooth chest.

Hutch’s mouth opened, slackened, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on the rhythmic strokes, the firm, velvety feel of Starsky’s flesh. The body beneath his hands was a vibrating wire, thrumming with energy.

Starsky’s eyes stayed on Hutch, all his attention focused on warm touch and clear blue eyes, open again, staring at him, in him, part of him, one melding into the other. It was overwhelming, a bomb gathering in his balls, hard and heavy, undeniable. He came and came in deep, astonishing spasms, gasping, shaking through it all, never looking away, amazed that he couldn’t, afraid that he couldn’t, afraid of severing the connection. The semen jerked out of him and Hutch caught it in the cup of his palm, rubbing it between his fingers as Starsky grew quiet.

Hutch’s face went from soft and open to tighter, suddenly scared. He looked about fifteen years old, and Starsky’s heart dropped to his stomach.

The connection broke.

“Starsky. What . . . what the hell was that?” Hutch’s voice was cautious. He looked at the floor.

Starsky pulled all the emotion from his face and sealed it away. “You promised you wouldn’t make me squirm, so instead you just knocked me through the roof. That’s what.”

“C’mon. Stop playing games.”

It pissed Starsky off. “I’m not the one playing games. You know what the hell it was, so don’t ask. It was us.”

Hutch got back on the couch, grimacing at the carpet nap stamped on his knees. He leaned over and brushed cool, dry lips over Starsky’s in apology. It felt as if he were already withdrawing. Starsky opened his mouth, put everything he had of himself in the gentle touches, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

“What are we gonna do?” Hutch said when their lips parted.

“Don’t ruin it, Hutch. Just don’t.”

“I can’t help it. Why the hell now? I’m not ready for this.”

Starsky closed his eyes, considered denying the feelings that had taken him over. He couldn't. Neither of them had expected anything to go the way it had. He knew Hutch wasn’t ready—hadn’t suspected that he _himself_ could possibly be ready.

_So now what._

Starsky spoke, and he still wouldn’t open his eyes. His voice was rough, uneven. “Then it’s done.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Starsky didn’t answer.

“No.” The room was too still. “Wait. Don’t do this, Starsky. Will you look at me?” Hutch asked, his voice climbing. But there was only more silence. “I don’t know what the hell I want right now, okay?”

“I do,” said Starsky softly, finally answering. He opened his eyes and tried to smile. “Go home.”

“But . . . ” said Hutch, standing naked in the middle of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, and it stuck up on his head in tufts. “I don’t believe this, what are you doing? Just, ‘go home’? That’s it?”

“You’re not ready.”

“I’m not ready, that’s right. I’m not, but it doesn’t mean—what about you?” Hutch nearly shouted.

“Starsk, you know, you know, don’t you? I lo—”

“Don’t you say it, Hutchinson. Don’t you fucking say it.”

“I don’t give a shit. I—”

“You do give a shit. What about the job, Hutch? Your friends?”

“You tell me then. Just what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“Nothing. Not until we can take it all on, together, everything that comes with it.” Starsky’s voice was even, but hard. Shutting him out even while it offered him everything.

Hutch stared at him. “What happened to the guy who refused to think about tomorrow?"

"All or nothing, no in between. Remember? I can't go down this path halfway. Not with you.”

Hutch's face tightened. "Stop this, okay? I don’t want to leave, you don’t want me to leave. I don’t want to—”

“For God’s sake,” Starsky said, sounding bone-weary.

“—stop. I don’t want to stop us.” Hutch’s voice was soft, that wonderful low timbre he got when he was hurt, or moved by something. It trailed off, losing strength.

Starsky closed his eyes again against the voice and spoke from the darkness inside his head. “What else is there, goddammit, you tell me and I’ll do it, anything, okay? Tell me.”

It was Hutch’s turn for silence.

“I’ll be here, Hutch. Okay? If the time comes for us. I swear it.” He kept his eyes closed, listening to the sounds as Hutch dressed. He kept them closed as Hutch walked out the door, closing it gently behind him.

  


	19. Chapter 19

THIRTY-SIX DAYS AFTER

 

The phone on the other end rang and rang. No one answered.


	20. Chapter 20

THIRTY-SEVEN DAYS AFTER

 

Monday evening. On the streets.

They’d made it through the day together, somehow. Mostly silently. Once or twice, both had spoken at the same time, then fallen into mumbled apologies and more silence. They were out of step with one another, had lost their synchronicity, once so natural that they’d taken it for granted. Hutch hoped they’d get it back soon. They were too vulnerable this way.

Starsky didn’t want to talk about any of it. It didn’t matter, though, because Hutch _had_ to tell him, no matter if he wanted to hear it or not. He turned in the seat of the Torino to face his partner, opened his mouth and in that instant realized the magnitude of the mistake he was about to make.

He wasn’t ready to go the whole way. Not by a long shot. Talking wasn’t going to change it.

And Starsky knew.

All that was left was to go back to what they were. They could do it, had to do it. The alternative was no Starsky in his life and that was no alternative at all. Besides, they’d been together too long to forget how to be with one another, no matter what truths came between them.

He was almost sure of it.

  


	21. Chapter 21

FORTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER

Hutch slouched on the chair at the 24-hour bowling alley. Starsky balanced on the back of the booth beside him. Nancy was at the concession stand. “Hey look, after we get all through here, why don’t we go out for pizza and a movie?”

Hutch shook his head knowingly. “You know something Starsk, it’s been over a month.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to try that hard anymore. You think I don’t know what’s going on, the two of you babysitting me like this?”

“Not true!”

“Of course it’s true.” Hutch’s brows raised in a no-nonsense expression.

“Absolutely not true,” Starsky lied again. “The only reason you’re here, is to hold the popcorn. Now go bowl.”

Hutch slapped Starsky’s knee and smiled, played along. He turned to pick up his bowling ball. Starsky released a deep breath.

The next lane over, a blonde woman in jeans and striped shirt approached the alley at the same time as Hutch. “Oh, I’m sorry, go right ahead,” he said.

“Thank you.” She hefted the ball awkwardly and rolled it right down the gutter. Starsky’s gaze followed first Hutch, then the girl, ping-ponging back and forth.

“Oh my, I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”

Hutch’s voice was hesitant, as if he’d forgotten how to talk to an attractive woman. “Yeah, well, it’s probably in your grip. The way you swing the ball.” He decided that sounded okay and spoke again. “Bowling’s really not very difficult.”

Starsky watched the exchange and struggled to keep his face pleasant, neutral. Things were finally getting back to normal, the way they had to be.

Later, with Hutch’s new date installed in the back seat of the Torino, Starsky looked in the rear view mirror. Hutch was watching him, and there was no expression on his face. The blank look was supposed to keep Starsky from knowing his feelings. Starsky didn’t let on that it wasn't working. Instead he smiled, holding that cheerful, relentless energy out like a shield, holding them together and allowing them to move forward.

He couldn’t waste his thoughts on wondering what might have been. Most likely they’d have burned each other up. Hutch was like that—a magnifying glass under sunshine.

Starsky had found the strength in himself, deep, patient, focused entirely on keeping their friendship intact and willing what had passed between them to fade if not disappear. But for a split second Starsky faltered, allowing his thoughts to show. He glanced away from the still eyes looking at him in the mirror from the back seat and realized he’d fooled no one. Not today. He looked back again, but Hutch was smiling at the girl.

Starsky pushed aside the thoughts of other women they might love, relationships they might have. All the things they’d face. There was nothing else to do but go forward.

If the time came, they’d deal with it, all of it, when they were both ready.

Someday.

 

 


End file.
